“Becky.” Alicia gives a nod and leans against the wall directly opposite me. I feel as though we’re in some weird game of chess, only I don’t know what the next move is.
Anyway. It’s not chess, I tell myself. This isn’t a battle. I’m not even going to think about Alicia. I’m going to … check my phone. Yes. As I start to read through a bunch of messages I’ve read before, I see that Alicia is doing the same thing, opposite. Only she keeps laughing softly and shaking her head and exclaiming, “You’re kidding! Oh, hilarious,” as though to demonstrate what an entertaining life she leads.
I’m furiously telling myself not to notice her, not to think about her—but I can’t help it. Our mutual past keeps flashing through my head like a film. All the times she’s undermined me, all her scheming, all her bitchiness …
My chest is starting to rise and fall in indignation, my fingers are clenching, my jaw is tightening. After a few moments, Alicia clearly notices, because she puts down her phone and surveys me as though I’m an interesting curiosity.
“Rebecca,” she says, in that new-agey, softly-softly way she has that makes me want to slap her. “I know you’re hostile toward me.”
She pronounces it “hostel” now. Of course she does.
“Hostile?” I stare at her incredulously. “Of course I’m hostile!”
Alicia says nothing but just sighs, as though to say, How sad that you feel this way, but I have no idea why.
“Alicia,” I say evenly. “Do you actually remember the way you’ve behaved toward me over the years? Or have you blanked it all out?”
“Let me tell you a little about my journey,” says Alicia seriously. “When I met Wilton, I was in a very unhappy place. I believed I was deficient in every possible way. He helped me to self-actualize.”
Argh. Self-actualize. What does that mean, even? Self-obsess, more like.
“The old Alicia was in a very toxic cycle.” She looks wistful.
“The old Alicia was still a child in many ways.” She’s talking as though “the old Alicia” has nothing to do with her.
“That was you,” I remind her.
“I know our relationship in the past was maybe …” She pauses as though to select the right word. “Unbalanced. But now that I’ve righted the scales, we should move on, no?”
“Righted the scales?” I stare at her. “What scales?”
“Why else did I recommend your daughter to Little Leaf?” she says, looking supremely pleased with herself.
The pieces suddenly fall into place in my head.
“You recommended Minnie … what, to make amends?”
Alicia simply bows her head with a faint smile, as though she’s Mother Teresa giving me benediction.
“You’re welcome,” she says.
Welcome? I’m prickling all over in horror. I feel like striding into the toddler playground, plucking out Minnie, and leaving Little Leaf forever. Except that would be unfair to Minnie.
“So you think we’re quits now?” I say, just to make sure I’ve got this right. “You think everything’s square?”
“If that’s the way you see it, then that works.” She shrugs easily. “For me, the world isn’t so linear.” She gives me a patronizing smile, like she used to when she was in financial PR and I was a journalist and her suit was more expensive than mine and we both knew it.
“Forget linear!” My thoughts are so scattered and furious, I’m finding it hard to articulate them. Let alone stay digna-dive. “Just answer me one question, Alicia. Are you actually sorry for anything you did to me? Are you sorry?”
The words hang in the air like a challenge. And as I stare at her, my heart is suddenly pounding in expectation. My cheeks are hot and I feel like a ten-year-old on the playground. After all the damage she caused Luke and me. If she really wants to make amends, she has to say sorry. She has to say it and mean it. I’m holding my breath, I realize. I’ve been waiting to hear this for a long time. An apology from Alicia Bitch Long-legs.
But there’s silence. And as I look up to meet her blue eyes, I know she’s not going to do it. Of course she isn’t. All this talk of amends. She isn’t sorry a bit.
“Rebecca …” she says thoughtfully, “I think you’re obsessed.”
“Well, I think you’re still an evil witch!” The words burst from me before I can stop them, and I hear a loud gasp from behind me. I wheel round to see a cluster of mothers standing behind us in the corridor, all with eyes wide and some with hands to their mouths.
My heart plummets. They all heard me. And they all love Alicia. They would never understand in a million years.
“Rebecca, I know you didn’t mean that,” says Alicia at once, in her most syrupy, new-agey voice. “You’re at a stressed time in your life; it’s understandable. We’re all here for you.…” She reaches for my hand, and, in a slight daze, I let her hold it.
“Queenie, sweetheart, you’re so understanding!” exclaims Carola, shooting me daggers.
“Queenie, are you OK?” chimes in Sydney as she walks into the parents’ lounge. As the other mothers file past, everyone has a kind word for Alicia and everyone avoids looking at me. It’s like I’ve got an infectious disease.
“I’m going,” I mutter, and pull my hand away from Alicia’s cool grasp.
“Not coming to the talk, Rebecca?” says Alicia sweetly. “You’re very welcome.”